


Without the Sun, I'm Only Shadows in a Dress

by Lyrabelacqua (orphan_account)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-09
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-11-18 06:42:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/558025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Lyrabelacqua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1940s Film noir AU! </p><p>He had found her. She supposed that if anyone could, it was him, but the irony still stung. It was he who had left her, after all.</p><p>(If you have seen Out of the Past, the premise is going to sound familiar. If you haven't, get thee to Netflix. Robert Mitchum would have made an excellent Sandor.)</p><p>Warning for very vague mentions of addiction and past abuse, but nothing graphic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Sansa**  
  
He had found her. She supposed that if anyone could, it was him, but the irony still stung. It was he who had left her, after all. The night the Blackwater--the Lannisters’ premier establishment for drinks and dames--burned, it was Sandor Clegane who had wrapped her in his coat and very nearly carried her outside. Wide-eyed and drunker than she had ever seen him, he had shoved her against the brick wall and begged to take her away. She had never seen his burnt face so close before. Those scars had frightened her once, child that she was, but seeing him that night, she knew the scars were not the worst of it. It was his eyes that burned her. A deep familiar grey, they could not tell a lie. Usually they were bored, sardonic, quick to crinkle at the corners with a laugh at her expense. But so too had she seen them flat and sullen in controlled rage, and glazed with drink. That night they were shot with red, wide with a fear so pure and sharp it sparked her own. She remembered her back scraping painfully against the wall as she tried to edge away from him. His eyes had fallen heavily over her then, pleading for something she couldn't give. She shook her head and raised her hand, slowly. She brushed the soot from his bad cheek, felt those eyes squeeze shut tight beneath her fingertips. He dipped his head and fell away from her, staggering back. She stood and watched and swayed as he turned to the night, joining the endless dark like the smoke that curled thick and black above her. It wasn’t until he was long gone, tire tracks and dust, that she noticed his coat lay crumpled on the ground. She picked it up gingerly and got the worst of the ash and dirt off. _Some memento_ , she had thought. She drove herself home that night.  
  
She sighed now for her seventeen year old self. That Sansa was three years gone, as good as dead. She took a sip of her warm drink and knocked the glass against her teeth, cursing as the contents sloshed onto her blouse. She leaned back and rubbed her eyes, forgetting she was wearing makeup until it ground into her skin beneath her eyes. She still thought about that night sometimes. Everything was slow and dreamy, like a film out of focus. How warm and heavy his hands had been on her shoulders. How bright and terrible his eyes. She remembered the harsh hum of his voice, but not what he had said. Would things would have been different if she had gone with him then? Or would she have ended up here either way, if not in this room then one much like it? Her thoughts of what could have been were twisted inextricably with what _was_ , what had passed, what she could not change. She could not contemplate one without being drawn, like drowning, to the other. Everything reminded her of somewhere else, her memories going back and back and further still, a fine silver chain that pooled and coiled and tangled in her hands.  
  
The little room, for all its emptiness, was suffocating. The decor was the sort of thing that might have passed for resort chic thirty years ago, but at least the fan worked and so did the water. The lady who owned the building had told Sansa all about it the day she had left her deposit. She was a widow and needed someone to talk to, and Sansa indulged her, realizing it had been days since she herself had spoken more that three words to another person. The block had once been lined with motels and cottage rentals, a popular spot for American honeymooners who would come back years later with their families, but a storm had destroyed most of this district--save the squat pale yellow building and a few others like it--years before. After that, the tourist business had rebuilt up the beach with the larger resorts, leaving this part of the city to the locals. It would never be like it had been before, but that was fine with her, the lady said. It was quieter now, calmer, now you could always hear the sea again. Sansa had smiled thinly then, picked up the key and stood to leave.  
  
She had been here for nine days, the longest in one place since she’d left. It seemed the whole world--the same that had once seemed to glow and buzz with promise--the whole damn world had folded in around her, tucked in tight, and collapsed on itself, until it was no bigger than this room.  
  
She emptied the glass with a final burning gulp and reached to set it on the rickety side table. She had been sitting cross-legged on the floor but it was time to move now. She stood--too quickly, on second thought--and turned to the tiny closet. The blouse was probably ruined, but she had several dresses that would do. _He_ had been circling for days, and she had decided that afternoon that she would go see him first. Maybe she could reason with him, beg if she had to. Something. She picked out the white silk, similar to one she’d had before, in the time she had known him, but nipped in at the waist and cut low in the back. She stepped into the dress and tugged it over her hips until it laid as she wanted it, then struggled momentarily with the row of buttons up the side. She lit a cigarette, breathed in deep, and allowed her lids to fall shut as the smoke reached her lungs. A drink used to be just the thing to calm her nerves, but that alone didn’t work anymore. She brushed her hair--a dull brown now--and pinned on a hat that matched her dress. She applied her lipstick, a little lighter than usual, and wondered if she would look older to him. He’d already seen her from far off, she was certain of it, but not up close--she knew the city better than he did and could escape quickly.  
  
She wondered again why they had sent him, of all people, wondered what they had done to get him back. She knew their means, their utter lack of scruples, and it chilled her to think of them. Something shimmered before her vision and the cigarette fell, ash smudged her wrist and the embers burned her hand. She cursed aloud again, another habit of his she’d picked up in his absence. Her stomach fluttered, with fear or anticipation, she couldn’t say.  
  
She checked on the money one last time before leaving. Her hiding place was as good as any, but in a room this small, likely as not it wouldn’t matter if she went to the effort. Besides, maybe she had it figured all wrong. Maybe he had already found her little room. _He could be on his way this very minute._ She thought about leaving it out, square in the middle of the unmade bed. He would laugh at that touch, his harsh bark a rumble she could feel in her chest. _Maybe the money is all they want._ If they got it back, maybe they would leave her alone. She would have nothing, but at least she would be alive, and away. _Wishful thinking again._ She swallowed hard, remembering the things she’d done to get this far, and shoved the case behind the air vent once more.  
  
 **Sandor**  
  
He felt her before he saw her. He had been dozing at the table--he knew he shouldn’t, but it was late and he was fully prepared to call this day a loss as far as Sansa Stark sightings were concerned. He had ordered a drink not long after sitting down--it had been so long--and before he knew it, there were six empty glasses lined up before him. The glare seemed to mock his failures. He hadn’t seen her since yesterday, a glimpse in the market before she felt his eyes, dropped her orange, and slipped seamlessly into the crowd. Her hair was different, but he was sure it was her. He toyed with the glass nearest him, his hands clumsy and overlarge, nearly dropped it. _She could be gone, for good gone, by now_. He’d scared her off, failed her again. He sighed and leaned back, tilting the hat over his eyes, resigned.  
  
He had arrived three days ago and had been trailing her since, still unsure why exactly he'd agreed to this. The phone call and the threat that hid like a razor flat beneath it were reason enough. And should he return with all they asked, he would certainly be rewarded handsomely. But there was more to it than that, he well knew. The need to shield her--to place himself between the girl and whoever would do her harm--felt as right and true as the familiar weight of a gun in his hand. To deny this truth again would be to deny himself, and Sandor Clegane was not a liar. How he might convey this once he found her was another matter entirely. Not to mention--should she believe him, trust in him--what would become of them both once his employers realized he had no intention of returning.  
  
And so he dozed. It was that strange time of day when the only people in bars are the ones who have probably spent their whole days there. The nighttime revelers had yet to venture boldly into the dusk and the sun hung low and full in the sky. He might have dreamed, the tinny music from the radio behind the bar pulling him in and out of a shallow sleep, but later he wouldn’t remember.  
  
It was the shadow that finally roused him, the sudden shift from the hothouse afternoon sun to cool darkness. The woman before him had condensed from the very air itself. There was something slightly familiar about the set of her shoulders, the length of her neck, but he was asleep, he thought, dreaming. The hat had slipped away. He could feel his eyes open and shut, open and shut, but still he dreamt on. She seemed to glide to him, her edges more solid as she moved closer, and all of a sudden it was _her_ and he couldn’t believe he hadn’t realized it a moment earlier. He sat up too quickly, almost lost the hat in the process.  
  
Her lips twisted, deep red caught between a smile and a frown. She glanced from his face to the glasses on the table and back. “I guess I have some catching up to do.” Her voice was lilting, a song, and now he remembered her laugh, exquisite in its rarity. He swallowed hard and set his jaw. She sat down without being asked. He regained enough composure to motion for the waiter and she ordered two shots of tequila. His brows shot up, under the brim of his hat. Suddenly he wished for a cigarette to go with that drink, another thing he had supposedly given up. Her voice was low now. “I know it’s not your drink, but I thought you might humor me, just this once.”  
  
His throat was dry and his voice was a growl. “How the fuck did you find me?”  
  
She smiled, for true this time. It put the sun behind her to shame. It was hard to get a good look at her in this light. And that stupid hat covered half her face. “You’ve been coming in here every afternoon. Your hotel is two blocks away. You haven’t had anything but soda water until today, though.” He caught one eyebrow arching slyly. “I thought maybe you’d changed.”  
  
He sighed, suddenly angry, regretting the empty glasses before him now more than ever. His head was already splitting as the treacherous sun dropped lower. He raised his eyes and looked at her directly, even though it burned.  
  
Everything about her was more refined, more contained, as if she’d been honed down to her sharpest elements. Her back didn’t touch the chair, her gloved hands were folded neatly in her lap. She still dressed the part of the proper lady, but it didn’t seem to suit her anymore. Beneath that careful restraint, something wild and desperate fluttered and fought, a bird trapped in the cage of her ribs. It struck him suddenly that it had been nearly three years since he’d seen her last. He had known this already, of course, but somehow the solid weight of all those days did not settle over him until she appeared before him.  
  
He found himself wishing she would unpin that hair, dull now as it was. He couldn’t tell how long it was anymore, tucked up under the hat. A vision like a veil fell before his eyes: his own rough hand sweeping that hair back from her shoulders as he leaned down to kiss her neck. He screwed his eyes shut and rubbed them hard with the back of his hand.  
  
“No, girl, the only one who’s changed is you,” he said, dropping his hand heavily on the table. The glasses shook.  
  
The accusation hung between them like smoke in the humid air. _A hound will die for you, never lie to you_. That vow, at least, remained unbroken. She ducked her head, almost guiltily, and for a moment she was perfectly herself again, uncomposed, the way he remembered her. So painfully young that she thought it was only words that could hurt her. The coolness had returned by the time she lifted her gaze, unapologetic.  
  
“So you hate me because I grew up? Grew some sense? You--of all people!--you know what it was like there. _I know you remember_. But you went back to them anyway. You know what they do and you still went back to them.”  
  
He looked away, ashamed, grinding his teeth. His skin seemed to burn anew under her glare. They remained silent as two new glasses, filled to the brim with gold, arrived at their table. She smiled--always so polite--at the waiter, then looked away, at nothing, at anything that was not _him_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one shorter chapter this time. I don't want to get too ahead of myself with posting as I'm still working on the ending.

**Sansa**

Less than five minutes in his presence and everything was unraveling. She could feel her control, the slight advantage she’d had surprising him, coming apart in her hands. The heat at her back and the walk in heels--that on top of that last stupid drink in the little room--would have been enough to set her on edge. And now she was sitting across from this _man_ again. This man she used to pray for, believe it or not, before she gave that up too. He was older, a little grey in his hair for the first time, the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes more pronounced than she remembered them. But he hadn't changed, not really, not like she convinced herself she had. Living as she had for years had strengthened her defenses, allowed her to keep something of herself intact while the world dwindled and burned around her. She had perfected a look of pliancy, a doll-faced mask. And just as he had done all those years earlier, Sandor Clegane had nimbly dissembled her armor with a look and a line. She would never admit it to him, but it cut her deeply, hurt her in a place she seldom allowed herself to hurt. _If he is so determined to see the worst in me, I will give him all that and more._

She tugged at the fingers of each glove and peeled them off slowly, feeling the drag of his eyes on her with every movement. Once done, she reached for her drink, quicker than even she had anticipated, and downed it at once, without flinching. At least the taste of ash was gone from her mouth. She leaned back in the rattan chair, arching her back and tilting her neck. She imagined the alcohol, a cold rush in her limbs, steadying her already. She could feel his gaze linger at her parted lips, her vulnerable throat. She raised her eyes, knowing they were the molten blue of a low flame. His were weary before her, something in the grey almost sad.

“Well, what did they say? What did they tell you I did? How did they ever get you back?"

Still he refused to look at her.

“I’m sure you can imagine.”

She shifted slightly, wrinkling her nose.

“How much are they giving you? I have money.”

“Yes, I know you do, little bird, that’s the whole point. But that’s small potatoes. I think you know that too. You’re not stupid.” His voice dropped, and her skin prickled with remembrance. “And neither am I.”

Something surged in her at the pet name, it was a secret between them he dared speak aloud. She saw her chance. “Maybe we can make some--some kind of deal. An arrangement. Just between us two.” She looked down and allowed her lashes to flutter prettily, but her cheeks colored against her will as she glanced back up at him.

He was silent for far too long. His jaw was set, but his bad side twitched and jumped. She had never seen him so angry, and once she had seen him break a man’s arm. She dropped her gaze from his immediately and started to stand.

He grabbed her wrist, forcing her back down. “Don’t! Don’t say that. Jesus fucking Christ, what did they do to you?”

 _What did they do to me?_ She almost wanted to laugh. _Where to begin?_ Her voice strained against a bitter sob. It hurt to talk, and she wanted him to hurt, too. “ _I’m sure you can imagine_.”

He dropped her wrist as if scalded. This time, it was he who stood, shoving his hands into his pockets. His shabby grey jacket hung away from his broad shoulders. _He's gotten too thin_ , she couldn't help but think.

He didn’t look her in the eye. “I didn’t come here for that. I went back because I knew they were looking for you and I thought maybe, if it was me … Fuck. I don’t know what I thought. But I didn’t, I would never come here because …” He was terrible at this and he knew it. It made her smile to herself, swelling with something like pride, but she composed her face again as he glanced back down at her. “Shit. Can we do this tomorrow? I guess you already know where to find me.”

“Not quite. I thought you would stay at one of the big tourist hotels, less likely to stand out. I wasn't lying about seeing you here, though. I like this place, too."

This time he only laughed, impressed by her guile. She felt the rumble between her ribs, it warmed her.

“Here,” he said, dropping a business card from one of the fancy hotels on the table, along with enough cash to cover their drinks.

"Which room?"

"The _lobby_.”

He lingered for another moment, eager and afraid of what she might say next, his hat in hands as if it would somehow shield him. She pressed her fingers over the lettering on the card, again and again, as if trying to commit it to memory. Hope was blooming before her, spreading like a stain on a white silk dress. She tried to stop it, she knew how it lied.

“Tomorrow night, then? 8 o’clock?” Still she didn’t look at him. She would need the day to find a new place to hide the money, someplace outside the little room. "I won't disappear again, I promise you."

“Fine. That’s fine.” He ignored her last words, he hated promises. He left her once again, stepping away into the gathering night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Sansa**

She let him think she was staying at the bar. She drank the shot she had ordered on his behalf and counted silently to sixty before rising to follow him. Tall as he was, it was near impossible for the man to disappear into a crowd and she tracked him easily until it was clear he was going exactly where he said he was.

Her mind spun and zipped ahead of her as she walked back to her little room. She felt as if she had lost sense of the passage of time. How could it be that nearly three years had passed since she'd last laid eyes on Sandor Clegane? And had it really only been two weeks since she left? It seemed an age, a lifetime, ago. She hadn’t wanted any of this. That was the thought that came to her again and again. She had only wanted to get away. Towards the end, she thought she would die if she had to stay one more day in that place. She had come to avoid the setting sun, each day’s end serving only to remind her how much of her life she had already lost. The sting of this loss had become a dull ache, a constant she was learning to live with, and this frightened her more than anything, that she was could endure so much without yielding. Was she losing her very humanity, her capacity to feel the good along with the bad?

She never thought of her tomorrows, only the days before. Before she met _them_ , all golden hair and green eyes, cruel smiles and sharp teeth. Before her father died. Before everyone she ever knew had fled and scattered, like so much ash in the wind. Her dear family--the family with who she had slept and woke under the same roof every night and day for most of her life--was as lost to her as she was to them. Soon she found it difficult to remember them. Was it Arya who had overturned her dollhouse once, or little Bran? She knew her mother used to sing to them, each night before bed, but she couldn't recall the tune. Sansa tried to focus on their faces, but it was no good, like looking at photos underwater.

Her days passed incrementally, measured in the time she could go without an outburst from Joff. Sometimes she wished he would hit her himself, at least then she would have that to hold against him. But then she hated herself for even thinking it. _Things could always get worse_. It was a lesson she had taken no joy in learning, but now it was a part of her, as if carved in ink under her skin. Sometimes Cersei was kind to her, offering a glass of wine in unspoken apology on Joff's worst days. But mostly she was indifferent.

So it was in the final days of her stay at the Landing. Gated in dark wrought iron and mostly hidden from public view, you could see the whole sloping valley from the back windows. Sansa's room did not have such a view, though. From her window, all she could see was the thick forest, and the long, winding drive. It was the driveway that gave her the idea, really. Joff was going with his uncles to close a deal that afternoon, had left the case and its contents--forty thousand in thick neat stacks--just _sitting_ there. The house was huge and silent and the blood buzzed in her ears as the thought struck her. She walked like someone in a dream towards the case, her heels against the marble echoing too loudly in her mind. She lifted the handle, testing the weight. Why, it was hardly anything! Little more than Joff's regular attaché case, the one she carried sometimes when she walked him to his car in the mornings. Her hands seemed to move on their own as she took it back to her room and dumped her jewelry box into her purse. From the closet she grabbed only the coat from the night of the fire, hidden behind her winter furs. She draped it over the case, carried her purse on her other arm. Nearly five years she'd lived in that room. She glanced quickly at the soft pink bed, the matching curtains, all the furniture painted white. Cersei had chosen it all. Nothing here was really hers. She slammed the door so hard the handle shook in her hand. She crossed the wide entrance hall, the dining room, the kitchen, the garage, all the way to her little car at the very end. Empty, empty, empty. She couldn’t believe her luck. She sped the whole way down the mountain, laughing and crying. She drove out into the country first, stopping at tiny motels and giving false names. She parked the car so the plates weren’t visible from the road. She knew she would have to ditch it sometime, but that was drastic, it was final, it would make everything real and she didn’t know if she was ready to for that yet.

On day three of staring at walls and trying to come up with a plan, one of Joff’s men came. She didn’t know his name, but she’d seen him around before.

She must have looked so small when he pushed through the door, and so young. He walked to her without hesitating, a smirk on his face. She was practically cowering, after all, trapped like an animal. He didn’t notice her arm bent behind her, didn't know the money wasn’t the only thing she had stolen. He saw the glint and spark just before the shot, but it was too late for him by then. Afterwards, she wiped the gun down quickly and dropped it. She had to step over him to get to the case, and then again to leave. Her ears were ringing and she felt like she had a fever, like she would faint. He was still breathing then, barely. She kept thinking of her fierce little sister. _Arya, what would Arya do?_ She felt her mother's pride, her father’s shame, pushed them all from her mind. She had to turn the man over to get to his pockets, find his wallet. She tried to burn it later but her hands were shaking and it wouldn’t catch, so she tore up all the papers and buried them with the leather. She had already paid for a week at the cabin, no maid service, she had some time before they came after her again. She found his keys and took his car, cried all the way to the train station. She walked from there to a dealer, bought a car in cash, no name, and drove south, across the border, that same night. It was the longest she’d ever spent behind the wheel. She drove through cities and towns and cities again, filled up twice, kept driving. She cried off and on. For the man (his eyes were brown and wide and scared before she closed them), for her family, for herself. There was nothing to do for it now. She was away, that’s all that mattered, and she would not be caught again.

Her steps slowed now. She had arrived finally at the yellow building and carefully climbed the stairs to her little room at the back. It faced the water. She crossed the room in four steps and yanked the ragged curtain closed against the very last of the sun, leaving the room a cool blue-gray.

Her thoughts ran back to _him_ again. He knew about the money, but not the other thing, as far she could see. _Was he lying? He always hated liars._ She wondered, again, how he had come back to their service. He had hated them, hated himself when he worked for them, drank himself to the ground whenever he got a chance. And after he left, they'd wanted him dead. How Joffrey had raged when he didn't return after the fire! Betrayal was not unexpected in their business, but it was punished harshly nevertheless. _Why would they even want him back, after all this time?_  Then the truth struck her, so clear and sure she stumbled and nearly fell. She clutched at the dresser in front of her.

_They mean to frame him for it. Someone has to go away once the police start sniffing around, and Joff wants me for himself. If he brings me back, they’ll have him and Joff will have me._

She kicked her shoes off and tore away the hat, forgetting the pins that scraped her scalp as they came with it. This time she allowed herself to cry.


	4. Chapter 4

**Sandor**  
  
His suite would have put her little room to shame, the Lannisters had spared no expense. The sheets had been changed and folded back since he left that morning, and there were new towels in the adjoining bathroom. The drapes were pulled back to showcase the view from his unused balcony. He yanked them shut quickly and flopped back on the bed, still fully dressed. His feet hung off the edge of the mattress.   
  
He replayed it like a scene in his mind, again and again. All these years, he’d thought if they ever met again, she would fear him, shrink back as she had the night of the fire. But tonight he had watched as her fear beaded and rolled away like water. In its place was that coldness, born of deprivation and a fierce need to survive. It was as if her growth had been stunted, and instead she grew within.   
  
He had hoped that his years away had changed him. He certainly couldn’t hold his drink the way he used to, as evidenced by the way his head ached after only six drinks. In the time she had known him, six had been only a prelude. She left him undone. His anger, the edge to his vision he thought had dulled, glinted sharp again. He hated her, hated them for what they had made her, their creature, their pet. But his bitterest rage he reserved for himself, for he had allowed this, had cast her fate all those years ago when he left her with nothing but a coat and a promise--wordless, but broken nonetheless. Before that night, he had tried to help her when he could, but kindness was a strange thing to him and he didn’t wear it well. He could not blame her for mistrusting his intentions, but still he could not bear her scorn. So he left. Left her all alone. _And now she’s just as fucked up as I am_.

Even after leaving, he never strayed too far. Out of familiarity or stupidity or a certain knowledge he wasn't done, would never really be done, he couldn't say. He worked odd jobs, lots of construction, paid in cash under the table by people who didn’t ask for a name, only cared if he showed up on time and knew what he was doing. Uncomplicated work that did not require him to hurt or kill or think. He was grateful for this time, grateful perhaps for the first time in his life. He had tried to live honestly. _Not penance_ , he thought to himself, there was no making up for the evil he'd done. And evil it was--even what he'd done under orders--for he'd _relished_ it, had never felt more alive than in the moment he saw the cold, slick fear, the heavy knowledge of death, in another's eyes. If hell was real he was certainly headed there, nothing for it. But slowly, he came realize (or maybe it was all once: she didn't know it, but that night she'd held his very life in her hands) that no man was pure bad, no more than any one all good. It was not a conscious thought, but one he lived with nevertheless: for the first time in many years, his life was more than a tunnel carved out in the hard dark shell of the earth. Simple as it was, he had a purpose, one he could live with.

  
He kept track of the Lannisters. It was hard not to, as they only grew in wealth and stature. Although a shadow of the sinister seemed to follow the name, it also carried a certain prestige, the kind that comes with obscene amounts of money, illgotten or not. Their business dealings, the ones that featured in the paper, anyway, appeared legitimate. He laughed aloud at photos from a groundbreaking, celebrating a new land deal: Tywin, Jaime, even Tyrion, each armed with a ceremonial golden shovel. Cersei lingered in the background, tall and lovely and cold, her features arranged in a tight smile. Once, he read an engagement announcement, Joffrey Lannister Baratheon to Sansa Tully Stark. The type trembled before his eyes and he realized it was hands that shook. They were to marry the following summer, it read, after Joff graduated from business school and took his rightful place on the company board. The Stark family was not mentioned, nor the Baratheons. Joff’s “other family,” as they were often referred in hushed tones around the Casterly compound, had fallen to internal squabbling since Robert's death. The accompanying photo showed a beautiful young couple, but Sandor noticed the grip on her arm, the strain in her smile. The blood pounded in his head and all of a sudden he needed a drink like he needed to breathe.  
  
Four days ago, he had found a telegram waiting under the door of the efficiency he paid for by the week. "DOG." A phone number. He didn’t dwell on how they’d found him, but cursed his carelessness in staying so close. He used the pay phone at the laundromat across the street. The little fucker answered on the first ring, he had always been too eager for his own good. Sandor could practically hear the smirk on the other end of the line.  
  
“My old dog, is it? You always did come when called.”  
  
Sandor said nothing, gritted his teeth.   
  
“I have a problem, dog. That little bitch stole from me and took off. South of the border, looks like.”  
  
“And how the fuck is that my problem?”  
  
“Call it repayment of a favor. My family gave you everything, and when you shit on it, we let you live anyway.”  
  
He gripped the phone tightly. He could feel the little bastard’s patience begin to strain against his rage. The phone line buzzed and popped.  
  
“Alright, dog. Play it that way. How about this for an offer? You find her. Bring her back. And what she took, too, if it isn’t already gone. You do this for me, and do it now, or I’ll have your brother to do it instead."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the short chapters I've been posting lately. I'm trying to get in the swing of writing longer scenes. In the meantime, two mini-chapters!

**Sansa**  
  
She woke ahead of her alarm, stared at the lazy ceiling fan above her for a long moment before remembering where exactly she was. She had been dreaming of something pleasant, but the warm safety of her dreamland faded with each breath as the day dawned bright and red before her. She dragged herself from bed, bathed in the chipped tub and washed her hair, rinsing out some of the brown. She found herself humming as it dried.   
  
She dressed quickly and practically, she’d be doing a lot of walking today. She moved the cash from the heavy case to the large straw bag she’d been using to haul her vegetables. Last, she tied a long scarf over her hair, topped it with her biggest hat and sunglasses. She locked the door quickly behind her, and looked around for anyone watching out of habit.  
  
She walked purposefully to the first bank, an imposing building even among the like structures of the financial district. She was welcomed in both English and Spanish, and led down some stairs when she asked for a safety deposit box. She filled out a card under a new name, and was given one of two keys to unlock the box, indistinguishable from its neighbors. The bank worker, a woman about her same age, was exceedingly polite. She explained everything in perfect detail, then excused herself so Sansa could do what she would with the box. The entire process was crisp and smooth. No wonder the Lannisters moved so easily in this world, the way was paved in marble and gold if you had money and looked like you belonged.  
  
She placed about a third of the cash in the box, stacking it neatly. She also deposited all of the jewelry, gifts from Cersei and Joff. The band on her engagement ring was really too small, and she scraped her knuckle taking it off. She stared blankly at the solitaire for a moment, its sparkle dull under the cold vault lights, then tossed it in with the rest. How long she had waited for the stupid thing and how dearly she had paid. Her father's platinum wedding band--the only thing of his they let her keep after he died--she kept. She still wore it, on a long silvery chain she never removed. Joff used to laugh at her sentimentality. She wished suddenly that she had something of her mother's as well.  
  
She picked mindlessly at the ring around her neck. She'd been standing in the empty room for too long. The silence was consuming, it was too easy to fill it with her thoughts. _They are never coming back. You have to make your own way now._ She shoved the box back into the wall harder than necessary and locked it decidedly. She thanked the young woman as she left through the lobby and stepped surely into the unforgiving sun. It was already much later than she had planned, she would have to rush back to her little room to change before meeting him.  
  
She stopped at two more banks, one Swiss and the other American like the first. She found herself amazed once again at how easy it was. After the man in the cabin, she felt like another person, like she had woken up in someone else's skin. Her hands were clumsy and unfamiliar, her voice was high and shrill when she heard herself speak. Now it was different. She wondered if she was coming back to herself, or if she really was becoming someone entirely new, someone hard and strong but not brittle. Like some precious metal, she imagined herself melted down, then forged in flame and cured in ice.   
  
**Sandor**  
  
He had never been an impatient man. Years of guarding the Lannisters, first Cersei and then her eldest son, had taught him well to bide his time. Cersei was vain, it took her hours to prepare to go anywhere, but Joff was even worse. And unlike his mother, he seemed to value his Hound's opinions, always asking if this tie went with that jacket and so on. Sandor nearly felt bad for the boy, found himself looking away as Joff's awkward overtures to his father and uncle were rejected and rejected again. Still, he could not help but hope Joff might one day grow tired of his flat responses, might come to hear the edge of bitterness that often crept into them against Sandor's better judgment. He hoped he might be assigned to protect Tommen or perhaps Myrcella instead. Young children posed a whole host of other annoyances Sandor was not particularly eager to deal with, but at least he would not have to endure Joff's constant swings between unearned arrogance and a sickly need for male approval.  
  
Tonight, as he waited for Sansa in the plush lobby--his shoes ticking against the marble and his hands itching for a bottle and a smoke--he couldn't stave the rush of memories. It unnerved him, how easily he fell back into his old patterns. How many times had he waited for her before, in hallways not unlike this one? How many glances had he stolen as she fixed her makeup, arranged her hair? In the beginning, she acted like everything would be alright, if only she could get it to be perfect, if only she could be perfect. As the long months passed--especially after her father's death--he watched as the truth dawned on her, sharp and bright and unforgiving, a winter morning. Her eyes were puffy and dull, she was too still, too quiet. He stopped her falling on the stairs once (he was drunk and stumbling himself) and let his hand linger at her back as he walked her to her room. Once there, she had smiled wanly--mere courtesy, he was sure--but it quickened his pulse just the same. He pushed her gently into the room and closed the door behind her before he did something stupid.  
  
The hotel wallpaper seemed to swirl, gold against a deep bloody red, similar to the one in the halls at the Casterly compound. It moved like smoke before his eyes and he raised his hand unconsciously to the bad side of his face. Even after all this time--most of his life--the ridged and puckered skin would never feel right or even familiar. When he was little, he had believed it would go away if only he could cover it, hide it.  
  
So much went back to his damned brother, the beginning and the end in his personal ring of fucking fire. Gregor, who seemed to hate him since he was old enough remember, who took every opportunity to carve out in his little brother the same hate that fuelled him. When the war came, Gregor was a hero, came back with every medal they had, it was like some terrible joke. Sandor had tried to join up too (another division, as far from his brother as he could get), but they wouldn't have him. Said the burns had left him closer to deaf than not on that side. He was crushed, although he'd never admit it. What kind of man stayed back? Only gave people more reason to stare in the streets, question him, fear him, judge, and assume. Gregor got him the job with the Lannisters not long after, and soon he came to see the advantages in being being feared, enjoyed it and provoked it.   
  
Around Sansa Stark, though, it had been different. He thought of her as she had been the first time he saw her, at her parents’ home. Sheltered and beloved by parents who treated her like a doll, a wind-up girl in a music box. She fought with her siblings something fierce, but it was all play underneath. There was no hate in her. Her sweetness was innate, uncalculated. What reason could a girl like that have to hate? But even he--who saw the worst in others as clearly as they saw his burns--could not have foreseen what awaited her. _She didn’t deserve it_. That was what bothered him the most. The world was ugly and cruel, but it shouldn’t be for someone like her, someone who would give all she had for nothing, for a promise, for a song. But despite it all, even as the world proved itself unworthy of her sympathy, her kindness never faltered. He admired that about her, even if he couldn't understand why. He courted her fear and then mocked her for it, but it was always half-hearted. She called to something in him, something vulnerable and _good_ , something he didn’t want to acknowledge. He had tried to protect her in his own way, he told himself. But when it really mattered, he had fallen back to fear, had lashed out and frightened her. She shrank away and he deserved no less.   
  
He tried not to think about her after the night of the fire, but he couldn't help his dreams. She would cradle his face in her hands, hide them both away in the curtain of her hair. He was gentler in these dreams than he'd ever been in life. He kissed her neck and she shivered in his arms. He would wake from these dreams as he had that very morning: sweaty and fevered, craving a drink, more alone than ever.  
  
Now he heard the neat clicking of her heels on the marble, and this time he knew it was her before he looked up. Her hair was down and seemed redder than the night before, maybe a trick of the light. He brushed the thought away, he couldn’t think straight around her as it was. She looked more serious than she had earlier, something grave in the set of her mouth and the angle of her gaze.  
  
She stood before him, and turning from side to side, trying to decide where to sit. The benches were really too small for two, especially if one was him, but it would be utterly ridiculous to try to have a conversation from the across the wide hall. He stood suddenly, towering above her, and offered his arm, surprising even himself.   
  
“The bar again?” He didn’t want to be alone with her, didn’t trust himself.  
  
She nodded and smiled and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, a beacon of warmth that made his heart surge and pound in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Question: I feel like my tenses got kind of wonky here. Are the differences between the present time and flashbacks clear enough?


	6. Chapter 6

**Sansa**

There would be a band at the place she had to come to think of as hers tonight. She had forgotten the fact in her haste, but maybe it would work to her advantage. If he didn't like her plan, he wouldn't risk making a scene in a crowded place. She didn’t think he would ever actually hurt her, but she had never forgotten the deathly steel that sometimes overtook his eyes and it frightened her, whether he meant it to or not.  
  
The band was still setting up on the tiny stage when they arrived, a singer with flowers in her hair and her three instrumentalists in matching dark suits. The place was already almost full, though, with locals and tourists alike. The air was heavy with smoke, but laughter floated above it and Sansa felt almost giddy as she stepped over the threshold. Clegane let his hand drop to the small of her back as he guided her gently to the bar, and Sansa quietly relished the return of this small gesture from the days before. Men who glanced at her turned quickly away when they saw that hand and the man so fierce it belonged to. It made her feel utterly safe and strangely powerful, that others would assume they belonged to each other.  
  
They settled close at the crowded bar and fell quiet once again, finding little to say to each other. Sansa looked down at her drink, swirling the ice cubes until they had nearly melted. Clegane was on his third whiskey already. She could feel his breath go slow and still the more he drank, and she tried not to let it worry her. The music started suddenly, lively and loud, and she jumped in her seat and cursed under her breath, her face in her hands. _His_ hand was at her back again, warm and steady. She looked over at him, half her face still hidden, and smiled behind her palm as their eyes caught. He was more sober than not, but it wouldn't be for long at the rate he kept. She shivered as he moved slowly over her spine, tracing up her neck to curl a loose strand of hair behind her ear. He followed the tendril down and twirled the ends around his fingers before realizing she was watching. He let her hair unwind and fall, immediately embarrassed. He cleared his throat loudly, his face had already narrowed and hardened. Her secret smile widened. She wondered what he had been like as a boy, if he had always been so curious. Then she remembered his brother, fear in her gut, and a sadness welled in her like mourning. She felt her edges numb and blur, felt the vast blue grief that was faceless and cold and barely kept at bay behind her eyes--and his, she knew. _He had no childhood. It was taken from him._ She thought of her own siblings, her lost pack, and wondered which was worse: to love a dead brother, or despise a living one. She straightened. _Now or never._  
  
It was so loud she needed to lean into him to be heard. _He needs a shave,_ she thought. Ever aware of the breath she was certain he could feel against his neck, she began to speak, hoping her words would not sound rehearsed.  
  
"You promised me once that you would never lie to me, and I know that you haven't. Whatever they did to make you come here ... I know you have your reasons. I know you won't hurt me. And I’m sorry. For what I said yesterday."  
  
She could feel his pulse jump at that, and from the corner of her vision, saw his hand skitter across the bar in search of his glass. He turned away from her for a moment, finishing his drink in one swallow. When he returned, she raised her hand to grip his shoulder, drawing back to look him in the eye. She knew he wouldn't believe her unless he could see it in her eyes.  
  
“Listen to me. You can’t go back to them now, not ever. When I left, I did ... something bad. After, really. And I think ... I think they only called on you now because they want you to pay for it. Sending you here ... this way they get me back, and you get your due for deserting.”  
  
He steeled himself beneath her, she felt him draw up to his full height and straighten his shoulders. His hand, the same that had brushed the hair from her face not five minutes before, was like a vice around her wrist now. Every instinct told her to run, but she could only save them both if she stayed, if she could make him listen. His eyes cut hotly across her face, she was a fool to think she could speak anything but the truth beneath that gaze.  
  
“What … tell me what _exactly_ you did, Sansa.”  
  
She willed her voice to drop again, she would not cry here, not for something she didn’t even truly regret. "You already know about the money, but the other ... I almost don't  believe it myself, but, I ... I ..." Laughter bubbled in her throat and she fought it back, nearly choking, she felt like she was going insane. He was still like stone before her, grey eyes flat and cool as he spoke.  
  
"Not here. Come."  
  
The vice loosened, and he offered his open palm to her. She looked up and the steel had dulled. She accepted his hand and they walked together to the edge of the dance floor, less crowded than the bar.  
  
He gathered her close, one hand at her back again, and the other still holding her own hand against his chest. The music had gone slow now, wistful and sad. She could only understand bits and pieces, something about returning home after many years. _To return. Return to what? What good is going back if everyone else is gone?_  She realized she was clutching the fabric of his coat and pulled herself closer still, as close to his solid warm presence as she could get. She could feel the strap of his holstered gun over his shoulder, an essential part of the Sandor Clegane she had known before. She knew it waited heavy and cold under his arm. She traced the line across his broad back. He responded almost unconsciously, his arm anchoring her to him as they shifted to fit together. There was no space between them, his knees brushing hers with every turn.  
  
She let herself rest her forehead against his chest for a moment. His shirt still smelled like the laundry, but there was something else there too, something that was just him. She closed her eyes and and the notion struck her that she should make a wish, something she hadn't done in an age. She used to, with Myrcella, on stars and coins and bits of flower, but they never came true, anyway, and besides, Myrcella had been whisked away to school on the East coast years before and never wrote. She smiled against his chest, felt the tears leak from her unwilling eyes. She brushed them away, hoping he wouldn't notice, hoping her makeup wouldn't stain his good clean shirt. _How can I even worry about such things? Here, now?_ For here she was at the end of the world, and he was her last ally, her only friend. He would never look at her the same again after this.  
  
Her breath caught in her throat but she steadied herself. She was glad for the music that forced her to stand on tiptoes and whisper the truth to the shell of his ear, glad he wouldn't see her face when she finally said the words aloud. "I killed a man." His fingers crushed her hand in his. "One of Joff's. He came to find me, same as you, three days after I left."


	7. Chapter 7

**Sandor**

He had been holding his breath, trying to count away the rage, the dread, the sudden _oh god we are so incredibly fucked_ that ran him through with her words.   
  
He let his breath go and felt the tension leave her body beneath his hands. She had been holding her breath too, it seemed, although her careful poise had betrayed nothing until it broke. He felt her choke out a shuddered sob before she hid her face again. He swallowed a few times, willing away the sudden lump in his throat, and pushed her away, holding her at arm's length.  
  
She slumped before him, wilted, but still clutching fiercely at his sleeve. Her eyes were ringed in watery black, but she was biting her lip. She would not cry.   
  
He let his hand skim down her arm until he caught her wrist again, pulling her through the crowd, outside and around the building. He kept going, nearly at a run, down one block and then another, tethered to the world by only her hand. He felt as if his senses had been sharpened: he could hear the blood rushing in his head, feel his lungs expand with every pull of breath. The street lights burned harsh and bright, leaving an afterimage even as he turned away from them. He heard her breath, too, becoming high and shallow as he dragged her on. He imagined her heart beating fierce at a rabbit's pace. Her shoes caught in the uneven stones, she cried out and nearly stumbled. A pang of worry stuck him deep between the ribs at the thought of her hurt because of his insistence, he slowed.  
  
"Where are we going? I can't walk so far in these damn shoes."  
  
"You curse now, too. That's new." He laughed in spite of himself, and wondered if it frightened her.   
  
She fell silent, maybe thinking on running again. They walked and walked and walked, slower now. The hyper-awareness was gone, all he heard was their steps on the pavement, his resounding flatly and hers clicking along in time beside them.  
  
They were walking towards the water, he realized. It was a cooler night than usual--he could hear her teeth chattering just behind him--and full dark, moonless but the stars were out, oblivious and beautiful. They reached the sea wall and she stopped.  
  
"Wait, please, just a moment."  
  
She unbuckled one shoe and then the other, stepping out of the spindly black heels delicately. In one movement, he found her altogether smaller than she was before, a girl again, to be cradled and held and whispered sweet lies. For the first time in a long while, he thought of the night of the fire, and mouth twisting in a near-smile that strained his burned side, he wondered whatever became of his coat.   
  
Then he found her hand was in his again and he wanted nothing more than to gather her close, tuck her head under his chin. He had never done these things for anyone, and yet with her it seemed he must, just as he must breathe and sleep and eat. There was nothing else for it. He let his eyes roam over her, no longer the shadow of a memory, but solid and real before him. Her hands were warm in his, she leaned into his touch as he brushed the hair from her face. She looked up at him, her cool blue eyes startling in their closeness. So wide and soft and gentle--he recognized the slow dip of lashes from the days of their shared world, the one that revolved around appeasing Joffrey's temper--but she did not look away as she had with Joff, as she so often had with him, in the time before. She just stared on, unblinking and without remorse. _Those damn blue eyes must have been the last thing the dead bastard ever saw._   
  
He knew then exactly how it must have happened, he could see it in her eyes when she looked at him like that. She must have heard a noise outside, the man’s car, maybe his heavy steps. The dumb fucker was bigger than her, stronger, wouldn't have bothered concealing his presence. Perhaps he wanted to scare her, let her know there was nothing she could do, that it was all over. And she would have been scared. She would have tried to run first, before he reached the door, before she remembered the gun, before she stopped and thought and concentrated hard on every single time she had seen one used. She would have hid it, behind her back, maybe, just before he shoved the door aside, snapping the chain. She would have cast down her eyes, held her breath, clenched her jaw so hard she thought it would break. He would have smirked then, so sure of himself, eyes raking over her. She would have let him come closer, and let herself look small and broken, even though she would have known down in her very bones that she would _win_ , and she would _live_ , and he would not.   
  
She would have cried and whimpered and slid down the wall as he crossed the room, stepping in close without hesitation. Close enough he could almost reach her, _stupid little bitch_ , already had one arm outstretched, before she whipped her arm around so fast--and it wasn't the gun so much as the look in her eyes that sapped the life from his face in that last long moment--before the flash and boom. And then he would have fallen, and everything would have been slow to him, the fan blades overhead cutting through the light from the overturned lamp at half the speed they had before. He would have smelled the smoke from her cigarette still burning in the tray, would have heard her breath--deep and heavy with life while his grew shallow and strained. He would have reached for his own gun, in the waistband of his pants, but it was too late. She would have kicked his arm away with the same bitter anger he'd seen in her eyes, and then he wouldn't bother moving again because it was his own blood soaking into the carpet and he was so cold and scared and he _knew_.   
  
Sandor Clegane shivered in the cool night air. He dropped her hand and watched the shame color her cheeks as her damp eyes fell from his. _Stupid little bird, why the fuck would you care what I think?_   
  
"I couldn't go back. You know what it was there. You _know_. And I was to be married soon...I couldn't let him take me back to that."  
  
"I don't care about the man, girl. I figured it was something more than just the money, he has a hundred men he'd call before me. Fuck them. Only wish you'd thought to take one more before you flew the coop."  
  
He paused, knowing what she needed to hear, knowing that not so long ago he would not have given a second thought to hurting her with a harsh truth. Now he understood why people soften such blows with lies and honey. "You know you can't live by night forever. The longer I'm gone, the more suspicious they'll be. Start sending in the big guns."  
  
"I know. I know." Her voice was small and weary.  
  
They walked again so they wouldn't have to talk, steps slow now and measured, along the empty malecón. The sea was black and endless in the night. He had never much liked the ocean--the dragging, pulling feeling of it--and it was even worse in the dark, knowing it was there five feet below but not being able to see it. He stopped and leaned against the wall, arms stretched before him and head bowed. He could see only her stockinged legs as she shifted from one to the other, crossing them nervously. He sensed that cold part of her, the silver girl--the one who lasted after all these years--coiling in appraisal, waiting to speak.  
  
"You can't go back to them."   
  
_I never planned to._   
  
He didn't raise his head, only tightened his jaw, and she went on. "I--I had to know that I could trust you. You have to try to understand. _Please_. I can't--I won't have you hurt on my account."   
  
He could almost see her stamp her foot, she was good to the last and it was too much to bear. He raised his head, daring her to look him in the face, and his voice felt harsh and cruel as he spoke.  
  
" _Won't have me hurt?_ I saw you beaten, and bloody, and fucking crying for help, and I did nothing. Walked you back to his fucking room for more. And now you _won't see me hurt?_ "  
  
She jerked away, and now he thought he'd finally done it, finally made her cry again. She was silent for a long time, all he heard was the sea and his own heart in his chest. Her voice was even when she finally spoke. "You were never as bad as the others, and that was good enough.”  
He didn’t answer.   
  
“Why--why would you say this now? What good does it do anyone?"  
  
She nearly growled in frustration at his silence, whirled around and stomped for true. He didn’t know what to say.   
  
She was facing away from him. She uncrossed her arms and reached for his hand, her grip was stronger than before. Her skin was dry and soft next to his, but there was something beneath it like steel. He knew then how she had done it, how she lived. She kept that strength hidden away, fed in the dark but cherished, a gem.   
  
“I'm not that girl, if I ever was. I'm not good. And neither are you. But I don't want good anymore. I tried for so long, and it never made any difference. Maybe I don't deserve it. Maybe--maybe no one does."  
  
"Sansa--"  
  
"No, you listen now. You're right. The longer I stay away, the more trouble I’m in. So, yes, I’m going back. And you can come with me, or stay away. You don’t--you don’t owe me anything.”  
  
“No. There’s some other way. You thought that little shit was bad enough, they’ll be no forgiveness now.”  
  
She had moved closer, between him and the sea wall, and was gripping his crumpled jacket lapels in her hands. He lifted his bowed head and looked at her, and it felt like seeing the sky after years in a cell.  
  
“I’m going back. You can stay or go, it’s up to you. But I’m going to end this, for good.” She dipped her head again before continuing. “But if you want to come with me, I could use your help.”  
  
Her eyes were still heavy with tears that hadn’t fallen, but the blue was bright and true, even in the dark. She had raised her hands to either side of his face, and he did the same, feeling the gentle sweep of her lashes as he brushed his thumbs beneath them.   
  
“You’re going to be the death of me, you know that?”  
  
She laughed now, closing her eyes, and stood on her toes to kiss his face, the corner of his burnt mouth, again and again. He could her tears on his own cheek.  
  
“Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not completely happy with this chapter, but I needed it to transition to where we're going next. Thanks for all the lovely comments and for sticking with me through the holiday hiatus!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, and for that, I'm *really* sorry. This chapter goes out to CatherineWinner, whose lovely encouragement is much appreciated. Enjoy!

**Sansa**

****

She left adrift. The lonely weight that had for so long crushed her slipped away, leaving her shivering there beside the sea. She had turned from him, turned to the wall just to feel the stone beneath her fingers, cold and hard and unyielding. Her breath caught in her throat, and the sharp wind stung her eyes, but she welcomed the sensation. She didn't realize her jaw was trembling until he raised his hand to her chin, slowly as if not to scare her.

****

"Sansa?"

****

"I--I'm alright. Let's go."

****

She broke away from him again, unsure how things stood between them now. Should she feel indebted to him? He to her? She didn't share his guilt, his sense of duty, whatever it was that had drawn him back to her, nor did she fully understand it. She had no desire to be his new master, if that was all he sought. There had always been a certain tension, strange and heady, between them. That much she knew. She felt it deeply, as surely as he did, could feel it every time they occupied the same space. His gaze lingered a little too long, and his hands. She found herself wishing he wouldn't shy away when she returned his look, pull back when she leaned into him. He didn't frighten her anymore, although she knew he thought he did. It was like a song she knew but couldn't remember learning, being with him. She could feel the hum down to her bones, the melody sweet and sad.

****

Did he expect anything of her? Would he want anything in exchange? She didn't even have a plan, really. Didn't know what it was she had asked of him, and what in turn he had promised, only that it felt like an oath on both their parts, some solemn vow they had each sworn to the other.

****

How could she explain what it was that she truly wanted--needed--of him? Not his strength, that much she had of her own, but perhaps the memory of who she had been before, a memory that was fresher in his mind than her own. That girl had been torn away the night he left, the wound sore and sharp, but he'd carried the girl he'd known within him, like some good luck charm gone shabby with age. Sansa felt as if she had been lost in her sleep, waking each day a little less of the person she'd been before, until the day her eyes fell upon that battered leather case. It hurt Sansa to think of the girl in the patent shoes and new summer hat, nervous and hopeful and so very young. The girl who was brought to a manse in the mountains and thought only of the view, not the cost.

****

Sandor Clegane knew the cost, knew the walls were bricked in blood.

****

She turned to him again.

****

"Do you--what you want from me? Why would do this? You could have stayed gone. Why'd you come back? Why'd you agree?"

****

He sighed, rough and low, shifted his gaze away from hers.

****

"Please. I need to understand." She reached for his hand and held it in both of her own.

****

"I'll not leave you to those damned lions again. I couldn't live with myself if I did. I could barely live with myself before. And if anyone deserves a chance at ruining them, I think it's you. Is that good enough reason?"

****

She nodded, feeling somehow hollow at his answer. She wondered what she had expected to hear. His deference to her--more than that, his faith--was as frightening as it was reassuring. When she stole the case and killed the man, she'd acknowledged that well within herself. She knew it was there, had glanced at it obliquely before, every time she returned Joff's abuse with graceful restraint, every time she imagined another ugly way he might die at her hands. Her coolness shamed him--when he understood it, which was rare--made him flustered. Sometimes he snarled at her, and sometimes it was worse, but nothing made it any less worth the look on his face when he saw just how inconsequential he'd become to her. She'd held her tongue so many times, held her grief because she refused to give him the satisfaction of her tears, but her patience had never tempered her rage, only steeled it to a point.

****

"Come. I'll walk you to your place."

****

She balked for a tiny moment. She hated herself for the deep strain of skepticism she held now, but could not deny how well it had served her. She trusted him with her life, such that it had become, but the little room had been hers till then, hers alone.

****

Poised like a bow, she nodded slightly and led the way. The rush of the waves to shore calmed her as they walked, evened her breath. Her nylons were already ruined, so she didn't bother putting the heels back on, content to carry them as they walked. He smiled archly at her bundle but didn't say anything.

****

She was ever aware of the silence between them, growing heavier as they came in sight of the little yellow building. Her breath quickened as they walked the stairs together, him slightly behind but still so close she could feel the heat from his body.

****

They reached the landing and she twisted her single key on its ring. A thought crossed her mind and she turned to him, saw his eyes as plain with want as hers. He grabbed her before she could speak, and all she could think was yes, but then he shoved her behind him, almost down the stairs, and his gun was in his hands and the very air around her seemed electrified.

****

She knew enough not to speak and so followed his eyes. The door to her apartment had been kicked open.

****

Feared clutched at her, curling cold around her ribs, as she saw him edge the door open carefully and walk into the room alone. He was only gone a few scant moments but to her they were endless, measured by her ragged breath. She wanted desperately to follow him but knew she shouldn't.

****

He reappeared briefly at the door and she nearly flew into him, her arms crushed around his middle with a force so great it drove him back a step, till he sitting on the bed and she was leaning awkwardly against him. Her traitorous eyes leaked again, burning this time with fear and relief and worry for him.

****

"I guess the bastards got what they came for," he said against her hair. The drawers were pulled out, her clothes crumpled and dirty on the floor.

****

"No, no, it wasn't here."

****

"Not here?"

****

"I deposited it, most of it. In three old banks downtown. And I have the keys too, here in my purse."

****

He pulled her away then, grey eyes seeking hers. Was he really so surprised to hear truth on her lips?

  
"Keep them safe," was all he said. "We'll take the train tonight."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took forever. Enjoy! x

**Sandor**

****

She gathered the few things that hadn't been ruined quickly enough, not bothering to fold them before she stuffed her travel bag again. He would have helped her but that meant touching her clothes, a strange sort of intimacy he didn't trust himself with. Instead he turned back to the door and tried to figure how to shove it back into place. He could tell she wanted to say something, could feel her eyes on the back of his neck.

****

He spoke without turning. "Out with it, bird."

****

"Do you think we should check on Mrs. Loynaz?"

****

Sandor had feared she might ask this, feared that it was indeed his brother the Lannisters had sent. He looked at his hands, heavy and useless.

****

"I'll go."

****

She looked hesitant to be left alone but nodded. He took the stairs two at a time, swift but quiet, and stopped before the door at the end of the long, open hall. It was no different from the others, save for a neatly-lettered sign that read "Oficina."

****

He circled the corner to the other side of the building. The landlady's back window was open, but not broken. The breeze made her plastic blinds click against the glass. He heard male voices and froze, thinking of the girl alone upstairs, but soon they gave way to tinny melody. Just the radio. Once sure there was no one around, he peeked through the parted shades. An older woman lay sprawled in her armchair. He watched her for a long moment, until he could be sure she was breathing, holding his own breath the whole while. His relief unsettled him: he didn't know the woman, why should he care? Because she knows her, she cares.

****

He took the stairs slowly this time.

****

"Sansa." Her name felt strange in his mouth.

****

"Yes?"

****

"She's fine."

****

The girl sighed and blinked a few times, drawing her hands quickly under her eyes before smoothing them over her hips. She was wearing a dingy trench coat over her dress now, he noticed. It was almost comically big on her--the shoulders broad and drooping, sleeves too long--even though she had belted it tightly at the waist. But there was no denying her beauty, eyes bright and hair tangled and aflame. He remembered the look in her eye just before he had noticed the door was kicked in, and he swallowed hard and willed himself to look past her, scan the room one last time.

****

He cleared his throat. "You ready now?"

****

"Indeed." With that she swept past him, flicking off the light as she stepped lightly over the threshold. He managed to lift the door and sort of shove it back onto its hinges, leaving nothing out of place to a casual observer.

****

In a fit of guilt, Sansa stuffed a wad of the cash she had kept into the rent box at the foot of the stairs--for damage to the room, she said. Sandor doubted it would be safe there, and thought it stupid when they might shortly need all the coin they had, but kept his mouth shut. One hand anchored at the small of her back, he stepped into the night once more.

****

**Sansa**

****

"I'm very sorry sir, but there's simply nothing to be done. It's past eleven, you understand, and tonight's last train departed at 9:15."

****

The concierge spoke in clipped and measured English, impeccably polite despite the absurdity of the request. Sansa could feel the man beside losing his temper with each apology, and tightened her grip on his hand, beneath the wide desk where the man across could not see.

****

They had returned to his hotel to arrange for passage North--the Lannisters had given him cash rather than bother with arranging a room for him themselves, and he had only spoken to Joff once from a pay phone since he'd arrived--but now it seemed they were stuck again. They knew about the little room in the yellow building because Sandor had told them, knowing he would reach her first and warn her, if nothing else. With the train ruled out for now, this was the safest place, and they were both tired beyond measure.

****

Sansa felt her nerves fray at every passing disaster. It had already been a long night, and it stretched longer before her still when she thought of the nine hours to pass before they could leave once more.

****

Sandor's jaw clicked. The concierge moved smoothly forward. "I can call first thing tomorrow and have you booked on the 8:05 train. Will that be suitable? One more night could not possibly hurt, sir." He smiled kindly, as if they were some young couple extending their honeymoon--although he knew perfectly well that the man with the burns had been alone the day before. "I'll have the lady's bag taken up to your room immediately. And is there anything else I can arrange, sir? A bottle of champagne? Complimentary, of course."

****

Sandor opened his mouth to speak, but Sansa nearly lunged forward then, realizing she hadn't eaten in hours.

****

"A cheese plate as well, please. And some bread."

****

"Of course, mademoiselle."

****

"Just leave everything at the door."

****

"As you wish, sir."

****

The concierge turned on one heel to signal for the bag. By the time he returned to his desk, the two were already at the elevator bank. They both looked weary, bone-tired, but each seemed to draw some strength, some power of will, from the other. The large man had his arm around her waist, and she leaned into him, squeezing his hand. She looked past his shoulder every few moments, just as she had done while they stood at the desk. She seemed afraid, the concierge realized, but not of her companion. This was nothing he hadn't seen. Strange people came into the hotel all the time, and he knew from experience that the intentions of those who lingered in the lobby this late were rarely honorable. The concierge was excellent at his job for a reason. He knew which questions not to ask, which faces were better forgotten.

****

Watching as the man led her gently into the elevator, he could not help but wish that whatever it was the woman feared did not come to pass.

****

***

****

When they reached the room, Sansa sat primly on the bed before raising herself almost immediately, shocked at her own presumption. There was only one bed, its frame gilded to match the rest of the room, which was all done in gold and deepest red. She traced her fingertips along the reproduction baroque molding and thought to herself that the bed matched the suite, being exceedingly ornate and spacious beyond need. The room was made immediately smaller the moment Clegane shut the heavy door behind him, his face still half in shadow as he turned back to her.

****

He seemed not to know what to do with himself, hands in his pockets again. Sansa was intent on the carpet now, her cheeks reddening. They stood for a long moment, he near the door and she by the bed, refusing to look at each other. He seemed about to speak when a single knock at the door drew them both.

****

He grasped the knob with one hand, the other deep in his jacket. On the gun, she knew. There was no peephole. He opened the door quickly, using his body to fill the small gap.

****

Her bag stood outside the door, next to a stand and tray, laden with food, as well as two chilled bottles of champagne and flutes. He waved her over to help and they hurried everything into the room, glancing down the hall as they went.

****

The silence fell heavily over them once more as they ate. They sat on the bed with the tray between them, since Sansa had set her bag on one the small table's two chairs. They had taken off their coats, and he his jacket, and laid them over the chair backs.

****

"Champagne?"

****

"Mm, please." Her eyes were bright and she spoke through a mouthful of warm black bread, and he had to turn away to hide his smirk. She looked more herself then--the her he had first known--than she had in days. Maybe in years. In the days before, he remembered, she used to visit the kitchen after dinner. The chef liked her--everyone did--and always had some treat waiting for her. Sometimes Sandor would catch her dashing back up to her room, by this time well into his cups. Once he caught her from falling down the steps, and almost went over himself. He joked that she ought to have left a trail of breadcrumbs in her wake. She was still afraid of him then, no small wonder.

****

"Perhaps it will stop you fidgeting," he said, leaning in close to pour the bubbled wine, so close he could smell her hair and see her chest rise with every breath. She tipped her glass to his before taking a sip.

****

What he said was true. When her hands were not putting food in her mouth, they were fiddling with the buttons at her collar, or else tangled in the ends of her hair. She crossed her legs again and shifted back to lean against the headboard, finishing her glass in one long swallow. Sandor seemed unable to meet her eye and stared hard at his glass instead, also empty. It looked delicate and strange in his hand, she thought, but he was very careful when he set it on the nightstand and reached for the second bottle.

****

"I wish I could stop," she said. "My mind is racing. I--I'm going to take a bath."

****

She stood and unhooked the clasp at the back of her dress, stretching her arms far above her, head dipped between them. She felt his eyes on the back of her neck and swept her hair to the side, knowing he was watching and what it did to him.

****

What are you doing? A voice, small and persistent. Being happy while I can. Is there sin in that? The voice did not respond.

****

"Sandor."

****

She turned at the doorway, back to him. Her dress was slipping from one shoulder and she could tell he was trying not to look.

****

"What do you want, little bird?"

****

"Another glass."

****

He stood without a word and crossed slowly to her, the bottle in one hand. She let her eyes fall over him, from broad shoulders to ragged face. His eyes were downcast again, and her breath quickened when they met hers, the grey softer somehow than she’d ever seen it. She held her glass out to him and he took her wrist, holding her steady as he poured. He released her when he was done, but she didn’t step back, and neither did he.

****

She took a tiny sip and set the glass upon the table. Once again, it seemed to her the world beyond the room had simply ceased to be. There was only the man before her. She was close enough to see the pulse below his jaw, to hear his breath. Her hands were shaking but sure as she raised them to his face, brushing the hair from his brow. She felt his lashes flutter beneath her hands, the scrape of stubble and the unnatural crease that twisted his burned side when he spoke.

****

His voice was rough and deep, broken glass worn smooth by the sea.

****

“What do you want?”

****

“You. This.”

****

She kissed him then, because she couldn’t imagine wanting anything more. She kissed his bad cheek first, then the corner of his eye, the hollow beneath his jaw, the very edge of his lips, until he kissed her back with the same clarity of purpose he applied to everything he did. She felt him yield to her, his resistance giving way to a sweeter sort of tension as he molded himself to her. She shivered and gasped when his mouth found her neck, his hands at her back tracing the curve of her spine as he slid the dress from her shoulders, leaving her in a lace-edged bra and half-slip. Her own hands flew to his collar, undoing the long line of buttons down his front with fond reverence. She wanted to touch every part of him, take everything else away until he was hers and she was his. He shifted away to unbuckle the straps of the holster over his shoulders and a shadow of fear, like some distant memory, drifted over her once more.

****

“Can I?” she asked. He held still, nodding silently with something like wonder in his eyes as her hands pushed his away. Her expression was wolfish, intent on her task. She bit her lower lip as she undid the clasps and then lifted the gun and holster away.

****

“They’re so much heavier than I always thought. I never knew--until--until,” she whispered. Suddenly, she wanted to get rid of thing. She placed it on the table gently, but the thud it made was deep and final.

****

Her voice sounded thin to her ears, as if it came from another time. Sandor held back for a moment but she could feel him watching--and knowing there was some part of her that mystified and frightened him, she remembered how unknowable he had once seemed to her. But then his hand was at her back again, warm and solid and real on her bare skin.

****

“Come here,” he asked. At her cocked eye brow he added a "please" and she obeyed, allowing him to take her by the hand back to the bed. "Stay still."

****

Still she stood and he knelt before her, fisting the half-slip and dragging it down her thighs to the floor where she could step out of it, keeping her balance with a hand splayed on one broad shoulder. He slipped strong fingers beneath her garter straps, releasing the snaps one by one before tugging her stockings down with care. His mouth followed his hands, leaving a trail that seemed to burn across her skin till she was wordless, breathless.

****

She lay back then, dragging him down over her because she needed him closer, needed the way he smelled and tasted and felt. And he needed her as well, nuzzling her neck and slipping his hands between them, helping her undo his belt and pushing her thighs apart with one knee. He slipped an arm beneath her, and she arched away from the bed so he could unhook her bra. His hands were a utilitarian marvel against her skin: broad and rough, deft and gentle.

****

"What do you want?" he asked again, his mouth at her collarbone making his words reverberate in her chest.

****

Sansa knew what it was to be wanted and adored, had cultivated her courtesies and plied her flatteries well. It had always pleased her to please others. But here, this...no man had ever asked her that before. Only alone, her hands feverish in the dark, had she thought of what she really wanted: a dark figure melting into smoke at the edge of her dreamy vision. She didn't have the words.

****

“I...”

****

She looked up at him, his eyes the blue smoke that hovered over a low flame. She wondered what she must look like to him, and decided she didn't much care. She ran her hands slowly up his sides, his back, over his shoulders, digging in her nails to feel him buck his hips, straining to meet hers. By now she was moving her hips in small circles against him, his weight above her creating the perfect sense of pressure.

****

She kissed him again rather than speak, then fell back breathlessly, her chest heaving. She pushed him off her a little, just enough so she could lift her hips away from the mattress. His hands were at her hips immediately, peeling away the flimsy bit of lace they found.

****

Her hands were at his shoulders now, pushing him farther down, his breath hot against her chest, her belly. "Is this what you want, little bird?"

****

"Yes," she breathed. He was kneeling on the floor now, and grabbed her hips to drag her sharply to the edge of the bed. She giggled and slapped his forearm lightly. He settled over her once more, spreading her thighs and rubbing tentative circles into her hips, painfully slow. She could feel his breath, his stubble, as he kissed his way up her thigh, one large hand possessive around the back of her knee.

****

He looked up at her then, his eyes tender even in shadow. She bent down to trace one finger over the line of his jaw, coming to rest at his lips. He leaned into her touch, tongue at her palm.

****

"Yes. Please," she gasped.

****

***

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a line from "Werewolf Heart" by Dead Man's Bones.


End file.
